


A Stiffen Christmas

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Series: Stiffen the Sinews [3]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas comes to Gotham. Bane doesn't get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stiffen Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I am a month and a half late with this. BUT. I hope you can still enjoy some Stiffen-inspired Christmas fic. :) Takes place in an alternate timeline where they all escaped the pit together. This was meant to be mindless Christmas fluff, but I threw in some smut and angst (so you'd know it was me).

“I thought people only did this in books,” Bane says. He's frowning, looking with grave skepticism at the tree John has lugged into the front foyer of their building.

“This is a very serious tradition,” John says. “Help me get it up the stairs.”

Bane mutters something under his breath about ridiculous Western customs, then wraps his arms around the tree and carries it off with ease. John follows, brushing pine needles off his jacket.

In the apartment John guides Bane to a corner where he's already got a stand waiting. While they get the tree set up, it delicately showers them with more needles. Talia ventures out of her room to watch with mild interest.

“Why's there a tree inside?” she asks when they're done.

“It's our Christmas tree,” John says. “It's for putting presents under.”

“We have presents? Where are they?”

“I haven't wrapped yours yet,” John admits. “And anyway, we have to wait until Christmas.”

“Why?”

“Because ... it's Christmas. That's how you do things.”

Talia looks at Bane. Bane shrugs, and looks at John. By the slight lift to the corner of his scarred mouth and the crease at the corners of his eyes, John can tell he's amused, rather than annoyed.

“Look, we're doing Christmas, okay?” John says impatiently. “And that means we're doing it right. I'll teach you.”

The fact is, apart from this being his first Christmas since his arrest, it's ... well, it's the first time he's ever had an actual family to celebrate with. He glares at Bane, daring him to challenge this.

In answer, Bane cups his chin, brushes a kiss to the corner of John's mouth, and says, “All right, _habibi_.”

It's the tone he uses when he thinks John is acting strange but is willing to indulge his oddity. John will take it.

“Let's go get decorations,” he says.

 

*  
The store down the street has a lot of Christmas tree decorations to choose from, some tacky, some more traditional. Mostly tacky. John steers Bane and Talia past those ones. He doesn't want an electric blue tree with white tinsel. He wants the tree he grew up seeing on TV—real, green, lovingly decorated with red and green and gold ornaments and twinkling white lights. He was always jealous of the family that owned that tree—mostly for the heaps of presents piled underneath it.

Bane holds a basket and John piles sets of matching ornaments and ribbons into it, glancing up at the display tree to use as a guide. When he's got the decorations he wants, the display still somehow looks lacking. It's the familiar touch, he thinks. He's lived in foster homes where the parents had adorned their tree with ornaments made by their own kids— reindeer made from popsicle sticks, shitty macaroni angels, snowflakes cut out of paper. Their tree will have no special feature, nothing that's just theirs.

He turns to Talia. “Why don't you pick out some of your own ornaments?”

She skips off. She's back in a few minutes with a collection of assorted ornaments, which she shows John one by one: a lobster, a surfboard, one ball ornament with glittering fish on it, two felt monkeys, and a glass wedding cake.

“Why the wedding cake?” John asks. The others are just as bizarre, but at least he understands her logic. Lobster for _The Little Mermaid_. Surfboard for _Lilo and Stitch_. Fish for _Finding Nemo_. Monkeys for _The Jungle Book_. Her favourite animated movies.

She holds the cake up. John takes it and reads the inscription at the bottom. “Our First Christmas?”

“It's our first Christmas,” Talia says. “Me and Bane's.”

John laughs. “Yeah, it is,” he says. He can't argue with that. “Okay.”

He helps her put her ornaments in the basket. Bane is checking out something on a display tree; but he's oddly cagey about showing it to John when John catches him. Eventually, Bane takes it off the tree so John can see. It's a little robin.

“Very funny,” John says.

Bane smiles behind his scarf.

They take the robin, too.

 

*  
That night John lies in bed, listening to Bane shower. It's a nightly ritual. Things John would call modern conveniences tend to perplex and frustrate Bane—but he sure does love to shower. He's in there for a good long while. John lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling.

This time last year he'd have been bracing himself for another cold season in the pit. It would get colder at night and he'd lie awake shivering for a long time before he could fall asleep, then wake up too early. He'd sleep during the day, up to eighteen hours every day, because lying under the blankets was better than leaving the bed for any reason other than to pee. His renewed energy in Gotham is one of the things that seems to surprise Bane most. John runs and works out every day to get his strength back up to what it used to be.

In the pit, Bane would usually indulge him, lie down with him for an afternoon nap and let John rest his head on his chest, listen to the thumping of Bane's steady heart. Some days there was nothing, no stimulation except for that. At night the only way John could sleep was wrapped up in both of Bane's arms, for warmth. On the coldest nights, he'd try to pretend he was in Gotham, that his space heater was broken and it really wasn't that bad; but he couldn't fool himself. Now, ironically, he can't convince himself that he really is in Gotham. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the cold in his limbs. He can feel the scratchy blankets and smell the old cell, and the faint perfume that drifted out of Nadiya's.

Bane leaves the bathroom with a towel draped around his waist. John hadn't even heard the shower stop. He rolls over, facing the lamp that fills their room with dim rosy light, and listens to the rustling of Bane pulling his pyjamas on. The bed creaks when Bane slides in.

John scoots back a little. Then further, wriggling, seeking, until he finds the solid press of Bane's body at his back. Bane doesn't say a word, because neither of them have to. He knows what John needs. He rolls over, and wraps John up in both his arms, to chase away the cold.

This is the only part he misses: being able to sleep, and lying so close to Bane at night without having to question it.

He turns his face so that the warm, fresh scent of Bane and soap fill his nostrils instead of the smell of the pit, and closes his eyes.

 

*  
John's classes are done for the semester, but Talia's holiday break hasn't started yet. He walks Talia to school the next morning. She likes it better when Bane walks her, but Bane almost never leaves the apartment building. That's why John is surprised when Bane unexpectedly agrees to accompany him to do a little Christmas shopping. Two days in a row—it's a Christmas miracle.

The city is too loud for Bane, too bright, and much too crowded. He hates feeling closed in. John can't blame him—he feels it, too; the stress of being surrounded; such a visceral threat in the pit. But John's stubborn. He forces himself onto the streets every day, facing down his demons the best he can. Bane helps. People are inclined to give them a wider berth when Bane is there. John sticks close to his side, and he thinks Bane appreciates it.

He's already got some stuff for Talia, but he wants her first Christmas to be a good one, and that means getting more than two or three gifts. And he hadn't actually realized until the other day that it means getting stocking stuffers, too. He'd actually resorted to consulting the Internet when he realized he had no idea what to put in a girl's stocking, and panicked. Besides, he still has some other gifts to knock off his list, too. Bane follows him patiently from store to store; sometimes opting to wait outside in the cold if the store seems too crowded, but always watching protectively from the door.

With his Internet-recommended list in hand, Talia is the easiest to buy for. Barsad is the hardest, since his gifts have to be easy enough to send in the mail, and how do you adequately thank the guy who rescued you from hell at the risk of his own life, anyway? But he finds a few things he thinks Barsad and his family may appreciate. He buys small stuff for a couple friends from the academy and from work. He's already gotten some toys and some more practical stuff for the boys' home. He waffles a little over whether or not to buy something for his therapist and his lawyer, since he doesn't really know the protocol. In the end he decides to just get them each a card, and then his shopping for the day is done. He buys himself a cup of coffee (Bane declines a drink), then takes Bane by the hand and says, “Come on. I want to show you something.”

They make their way a few blocks north, until they're right in front of the giant Christmas tree and display that go up every year. At this time of day it's mostly tourists crowding the sidewalks and snapping photos, and John is able to grab a bench not far from the display. Bane sits with him, guarding the bags, and gazes expressionlessly at the tree.

“It's pretty, huh?” John says. Bane nods silently. “I thought you should see a real Christmas tree.”

Bane just nods again. He likes pretty things, which is the other reason John wanted to bring him here. But when Bane just continues to look at the tree, and the lights, and the tourists, John starts to wonder if something is wrong.

It hits him, abruptly, with a sense of shame. What must Bane think of it all? Extravagance like this is beyond him. The world he grew up in is so at odds with the one John has introduced him to. As a child in the pit Bane would have been glad for an extra shirt or a bite of food now and then, a blanket if he was very lucky, and John gets that. He does. He lived there too. And most Christmases, growing up, he was pretty far from spoiled.

But he's part of it—this over-the-top, materialistic shit that Bane must hate.

“You know,” he says, suddenly desperate to break the silence, “Christmas is a pretty nice time of year. I know it must seem like it's all about the gifts, and the weird traditions, but really it's about people doing nice things for each other. People give a lot to charity at this time of year. Actually, when I was a kid a lot of my gifts came from charity, people who'd never met me but knew there were kids out there who weren't gonna have a great Christmas otherwise, and I thought that was pretty cool of them. These people would go out and buy, like, winter jackets and gloves, because I guess they knew the boys' home couldn't afford warm clothes for all of us. So that's always been Christmas to me—people going out of their way to do nice things, just because they can and they know there are less fortunate people out there. I really want Talia to have a good Christmas, mostly 'cause I never really had one, but it's not all about buying stuff and decorating trees ...”

He trails off, and another silence stretches out between them. John fidgets, embarrassed now. Maybe Bane has no idea what he's talking about. Maybe he still finds this whole thing ridiculous.

And then Bane says, quietly, “I have nothing to give you.”

The only response John can come up with is, “Huh?”

Bane turns his head so that John can see his face in profile, his eye narrowed in contemplation. John gets the feeling Bane hasn't heard a word he's been saying.

“I have no ... gifts to give you,” he says. “I have no money here.”

“Oh—jeez,” John says. He'd be mortified if he weren't relieved. “Don't worry about that. This is for Talia, really, I don't need presents.”

Bane still doesn't seem to have taken this in.

“I should be taking care of you both,” he says, “and I'm not. I let you work instead, when you have enough worries. I've been a poor ... provider.”

He hesitates ever so slightly. John wonders wryly if he'd been about to say _husband_.

But it's not like they're in financial difficulty. They're doing okay, actually. John got some compensatory money from the government after word about his false imprisonment got out. It was a lot less than John would've expected, given what he went through; but he's all about moving forward now and he just wanted everything wrapped up as fast as possible, so he took it and kept his mouth shut. It's enough for an apartment. Enough to pay the bills for a while, and to provide for Talia (and Bane, too), and cover John's school fees. In another year he'll graduate and become a real cop, but until then the thought of his bank account stagnating every month, with nothing going into it (even if a decent chunk of money still remains), panics him a bit, and so he picks up part-time shifts as a 911 call operator.

He can't picture Bane working. Bane is still trying to figure out how things in America work; he couldn't possibly be happy working outside of the apartment, potentially with other people. He'd tried to do the grocery shopping for John once and couldn't even do that—he'd been too overwhelmed by the selection. It's obvious he's not from Gotham. He reads everything as a threat (especially to John and Talia), and who could blame him? He grew up in a place where reading threats into day-to-day life was what kept him alive. It's hard to convince him that their lives aren't in danger anymore. He never relaxes. How could he go to work, like a normal person?

“You don't need to provide for us,” John says at last. “We're doing fine, Bane.” A thought hits him. “Are you getting bored in the apartment?”

“No,” Bane says, looking surprised. Of course not—he's used to cramped conditions, and there's a hundred times more stimulation at hand in the apartment building, which has a gym he likes, than there was in the pit.

“Then don't worry,” John says. “Besides, if you worked, we'd need someone to come over and take care of Talia, and I don't really like that idea.”

Bane grunts. He doesn't like it either.

After a minute, he says, “I want to give you everything.”

John looks down at his feet. He knows he's about to say something embarrassing—he can feel the words fighting their way up his throat—and he can't look at Bane when they reach his mouth. He swallows and gives in.

“You already have given me everything, Bane.”

Bane doesn't look at him, either. But he reaches over and takes John's gloved hand in his, and John squeezes.

“Let's go home,” John says.

 

*  
After the last day of school before the holidays, Talia brings home a craft her class has been doing. It's a toilet-paper-tube angel with a little styrofoam head, painted gold. Black yarn is glued to the top of her head and she has a little pipe cleaner halo to go with her paper doily wings.

“She's for the tree,” Talia says proudly.

“That's awesome,” John says. “She looks really great, Talia.”

Talia pets the black yarn a bit, and says, “I made her look like Mama, so it can be her first Christmas too.”

Bane and John are both silent. John suspects Bane is thinking the same thing—hoping that John will speak first so that he doesn't have to. But neither of them come up with anything to say.

Talia turns to Bane impatiently.

“Help me put her on the tree,” she says.

Bane lifts her without a word. Talia stretches up a bit to place the angel securely on the top of the tree. Then she wriggles until Bane puts her back down.

“How does she look?” she asks him.

“Perfect,” Bane says quietly, after a moment. “As always.”

 

*  
“I don't think Santa is coming tonight,” Talia announces on Christmas Eve.

This day is not quite playing out the way John pictured it. Probably because, in the movies, Christmas Eve is always an elaborate affair with extended family gathered round a warm crackling fire, stockings hung up with care, Christmas tree twinkling merrily in the background. John hadn't quite pictured that (they don't have a fireplace, for a start), but if he's being honest with himself, he didn't imagine them all watching _The Avengers_ on TV, himself nursing a drink on the couch while Bane and Talia play dominoes on the floor.

In his defense, he'd put on _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ first, but Talia found it boring and when John channel-surfed during a commercial break she'd pounced at the sight of one of her favourite flicks. Talia is fairly determined to be Tony Stark when she grows up. Also, John hadn't planned on the drink and he doesn't intend to make this part of their tradition. It's just that he can always tell when he's going to have a rough time getting to sleep, and a little bit of alcohol helps him get there.

He pulls at his drink thoughtfully before answering. “Why not?”

“Because I never heard of him before now,” Talia says. “And Mama never told me about him.”

Bane is silent, bowing to John as always in matters he himself is unfamiliar with. John says, “Maybe your mom had never heard of him either.”

Talia gives him a look like he's being deliberately obtuse. “We don't have a chimney,” she says. “He can't get in anyway.”

“He'll get in,” John assures her.

She looks equally skeptical and unsettled at this. “Where do I hang my stocking, then?”

That gives John pause. No fireplace. He thinks back to the boys' home.

“At the end of your bed?” he suggests.

“I don't want Santa in my _room!_ ”

“At the end of me and Bane's bed, then.”

“He has to pass my room to get to yours!” Talia says.

“Okay.” John sighs. “Not the beds, then.”

“Why not the oven?” Bane suggests quietly. To him, of course, this is probably the closest thing to a fireplace they have, and John can't really argue. Plus, the kitchen isn't too close to Talia's bedroom. But he hesitates. It seems very untraditional.

“The oven!” Talia says.

“Fine,” John says. “The oven.”

“But I still don't think he's going to come.”

Bane scoops her up, scattering the dominoes and making her shriek. John finishes his drink to the tune of Iron Man smashing up buildings and aliens indiscriminately, and Talia's laughter as she and Bane wrestle on the floor. He can't help but smile. So much for tradition.

 

*  
John falls asleep on the couch that night, long after Talia's been put to bed and her presents have been carefully arranged under the tree, his head resting against Bane's shoulder as they watched some trivia game show. He wakes up in his bed from a sound sleep when Talia jumps on him.

“Presents!”

John thrashes for a moment. The lamp's not on. It's too dark for him to see where he is and he lashes out, finds Bane and clings on; and Bane at once strokes his hair and says in his ear, “I have you, John, you're safe,” reaching with his other hand to turn on the lamp.

Talia pummels them both with a pillow. “ _Presents!_ I want to open presents!”

John comes out of it shaking, stomach churning, blinking against the lamplight and determining that yes, Bane is right, he's safe and he's in his bedroom in Gotham. Talia's words finally sink in. It's Christmas. He groans, wanting to hide under the covers until he feels less shaky and embarrassed; but Bane leans down to kiss his forehead and says, “We're coming, Talia. In a minute.”

“Wake _up_ , John!” Talia says impatiently. Bane blocks the pillow she swings at him, then grabs up one of his own and starts a pillow fight. Abandoned, being trampled by Talia, John has no choice but to emerge.

“I'm up, I'm up,” he says wearily. Talia turns to him with a bright smile that melts away all of his reservations. He smiles back. “Just let me go brush my teeth. Bane, why don't you get Talia's stocking? Not you,” he adds when Talia starts to scramble off the bed to follow Bane. “No peeking. There might be presents from Santa under the tree, remember?”

She huffs, but climbs back on the bed and sits obediently. Bane leaves the room, and John slips into the bathroom. Alone, he's free to have a quick drink of cold water, then splash some on his face in an attempt to dispel any lingering queasiness. Once he's brushed his teeth, he feels a bit readier to tackle Christmas.

On the bed, Talia is already tearing into her stocking.

“I tried to stop her,” Bane says.

“Look!” She holds up her new _Little Mermaid_ pyjamas for John to see. He grins.

“Nice. I guess Santa was here after all.”

Talia just nods, and dives back in. Some of the stocking stuffers she wrinkles her nose at—necessities, like a toothbrush, and socks—but the majority of the loot is candy, which definitely gets her approval. She lets Bane help her to unwrap everything, while John pulls on a sweater over the t-shirt he sleeps in.

“That's it,” Talia announces when she's had a feel in the toe of the stocking for any remaining gifts. She picks up a chocolate bar, which John deftly plucks out of her hand.

“Not till after breakfast,” he says. She slants a mutinous look at him, until he reminds her, “Time for presents.”

“Oh yeah!” She brightens at once, jumps off the bed and dashes out of the room with John and Bane trailing behind her.

In the living room, she's struck dumb. The tree looks no different, all the wrapped presents from John are still under there; but in the forefront is a big plush Stitch doll, sitting up next to two boxed sets of the Harry Potter books and movies. A sticker on the doll says, _From Santa_.

“Huh,” John says, crouching down and pointing out the sticker on the books. “This one says ' _To Talia and Bane_ '. Maybe he'll read them to you.”

She just nods, flushed with happiness, and pets the alien's plush blue fur. She loves stuffed toys. Talia's like John; she doesn't like to sleep alone—something she had to learn to do in Gotham. She likes something warm and soft to wriggle up against in the middle of the night, and for that reason every stuffed animal she owns lives in a pile in her bed. She doesn't have any as big as this one, though, the perfect size to wrap her arms around. John smiles.

“You want to open the rest?”

She recovers and nods again, dropping down on the floor to pull the nearest present closer to her. Bane and John sit on the couch to watch her. It's better than John imagined. She thrills over everything, often getting distracted from the rest of her presents by the one she's just opened. There's a couple board games, the kind of thing she and Bane like; some books; some toys. It's not all from John—Barsad and his wife had sent a few small gifts, and even John's favourite teacher and his wife, who have little girls of their own, had chipped in some new clothes. Talia unwraps a knitted scarf and hat from Bane, and promptly tugs the hat onto her head.

“This one's for you,” she says to John, holding out a wrapped package. Surprised, he tears it open and finds a pair of mittens that match Talia's hat and scarf. He grins across at Bane, who ducks his head.

“Thanks.”

“And this one's for you, Bane,” Talia says, scrambling up to push a box into Bane's hands. He looks even more surprised than John. “It's from me and John,” Talia adds.

Slowly, Bane unties the ribbon around the box. Talia watches, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and John is suddenly nervous. When the box is open, Bane just looks for a moment at the book inside.

“I'm sorry if it's the wrong one,” John blurts out. “I just remembered there was this book in Arabic that you and Nadiya were always reading, and there were poems in it, and it got—lost ...” Sacrificed with the rest of Bane's cherished collection during the famine. John takes a deep breath and continues when Bane doesn't say anything. “Talia told me what it was called and I looked online for something with the right cover and I thought this looked right ... but if it's not I can keep looking, I can try to find the right book. I just thought this one looked ... familiar.”

“Do you like it?” Talia demands, when Bane still says nothing.

“Yes,” Bane says finally. He touches the cover, trails his fingers over the gold Arabic text. He lifts it out of the box reverently. It's an old copy, secondhand, but in good shape. “This is my book,” Bane says softly. “Thank you.”

John shrugs, embarrassed. “Talia helped,” he says.

“I love it,” Bane says to Talia. She beams and climbs into his lap for a hug. For a minute he holds her tight. “I thought I would never see it again.”

John thought watching Talia open her presents would be the best thing about Christmas, but he was wrong. It's this moment, right here.

 

*  
John makes chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, and they eat on the couch while watching one of Talia's new movies. Afterward, once they've gotten dressed, they walk to the nearby park in their new handcrafted winter gear and have a snowball fight. Talia's alliances shift so rapidly that in the end Bane and John team up to dump her in a snowbank. They warm up at home with hot chocolate, and Bane and Talia play board games while John works on dinner—a roasted chicken with stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy.

In the evening Bane sits on the couch with his book and reads while John and Talia watch _Elf_ on TV. Bane is in his own little world, absorbed in the poems he thought he'd never read again; but at one point, he reaches over and twines his fingers with John's silently. John holds on.

It's not Christmas like he imagined it. He thinks it might just be better.

 

*  
John slips into the shower before Bane that night, after Talia has gone to bed. He washes his hair first, soaps himself, all routine things; and then, screwing up his courage, he wets his fingers and brings his hand between his legs. The first finger hurts, but he's had worse. He keeps going, determinedly, unable to get at quite the right angle but reassured that Bane will be able to. He's graduated to three fingers, breathing heavily and groaning softly, when he realizes how long he's been in the shower. Bane might notice. He withdraws his hand, turns the water off and grabs a towel.

In their bedroom Bane is reading his book by lamplight, utterly serene.

“All yours,” John says. Bane looks up at him, and John doesn't miss the way Bane's eyes skate swiftly up his bare chest. Then Bane is closing the book, getting out of bed, and John says, “See you in a few minutes.”

When Bane moves to brush past him, John stops him with a hand on his arm. “Hey,” he says, and Bane at once turns and kisses him. John sighs, leaning up and touching Bane's face with one hand. Bane kisses like he's starved for it, but hesitant, like he's not sure how much John is willing to give him, and doesn't want to push his luck. So John is giving; but after a minute he pulls away.

“Go shower,” he says.

Bane's grey eyes are gentle and unreadable, studying John's face. “All right,” he says.

When he's gone, and the shower has started up, John drops his towel on the floor and goes looking for their lube. He finds it in Bane's bedside table, and crawls onto the bed with it. Bane's never minded prepping him, but today John wants to skip that step. He slicks his fingers and gets back to the business of stretching himself. Three fingers is all he can do at the moment. He's rushing, at first, listening for the sound of the shower stopping, but after a few minutes he takes a deep breath and slows. There's no rush. He pumps his hand slowly, just waiting now. There's not a lot of pleasure to be had in this without Bane here.

And that's always the funny thing, isn't it? If John can just get out of his own head for a few minutes, he knows that Bane is capable of bringing him immense pleasure. He stops what he's doing—he's prepared, now he just wants Bane. He'd thought he was doing this for Bane but he's not; it's for him, too. He's hungry for it, almost surprised to find himself hard. He takes a few deep breaths, lies back on the pillows and starts stroking himself, lazily. This, too, will feel better when Bane is working him from the inside. He's ready for it now.

When Bane exits the bathroom, he pauses and just looks for a moment, making John blush. He knows, though, by the twitch of Bane's towel that he's immediately interested. He doesn't speak. He walks to the bed and leans down, and John stills, closing his eyes, preparing to be touched—but when he cracks one eye open, he realizes Bane is carefully setting his book aside, where it won't get any lube stains on it. John laughs.

“Sorry. That wasn't very responsible of me.”

“I shouldn't have left it on the bed,” Bane says. “Of course, I didn't know you were going to be doing this when I returned.”

John pushes his hips up a bit, fighting past the self-consciousness. “Like what you see, big guy?”

He doesn't feel like he's all that much to look at; he's damaged and scarred and frankly feels a little stupid, putting on this show. But there's nothing but reverent affection in Bane's eyes when he sits on the edge of the bed.

“You know I do,” he says softly.

John's clamoring nerves quiet down a little. He holds out a hand, and Bane takes it.

“Lose the towel,” John says. “Lie down with me.”

Always affable, Bane joins John on the bed, shedding the towel as he does. John shouldn't be surprised to find him erect already, but he is. He rolls over when Bane lies down on his back, just so he can drink him in, for a minute. It always amazes him how _thick_ Bane is—his neck, torso, belly, thighs, everything. He's pure, raw power, not like those oiled-up roid junkies in bodybuilding competitions. Bane is a hundred percent real muscle, and he lies back and lets John touch him, even more conscious of his scars than John is but not moving when John traces them gently, nor when John leans down and presses his mouth to some of them.

A shiver of apprehension runs through John when he sits back and actually looks at Bane's cock. It curves, thick and heavy, almost all the way up to Bane's navel. Now Bane fidgets when John does nothing but look, psychologically gearing himself up, and John feels bad, ducks his head and fastens his mouth to that, too. He lays kisses from the base up to the tip, slowly, laves his tongue over the head again and again, and it's working—he's losing his fear of this soft, hot flesh in his mouth. It's just Bane. Bane, who groans but doesn't dare touch.

“You're teasing,” he rumbles, voice an octave lower than normal.

“Sorry.” John pulls off, aware that he was playing with Bane but not really sorry at all. He grins, and Bane smiles back, eyes creasing and mouth twitching up at the corner.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks, his voice a sardonic rasp.

It's a clear attempt at self-deprecation. John strokes a hand over his belly and says, gently, “You know I do.”

Bane shivers, closing his eyes. Then he's pulling John down, rolling onto his side, and before John can react Bane is wrapping him up in both arms. His breath ruffles John's damp hair, and John presses his nose to Bane's neck, relaxing. John would never have guessed when he met Bane for the first time how much the man would enjoy cuddling. This all feels momentarily surreal, too comfortable to be right; but John doesn't want to question it. He wants comfortable. For a minute he lets himself float on this feeling.

“Are you okay?” Bane asks softly. He's giving John an out. He always does. John nods.

“Yeah.” He pushes Bane over again, then, carefully, heart pounding, moves to straddle him. “Yeah,” he repeats, looking Bane intently in the eyes.

Bane holds his gaze without blinking. His expression doesn't even flicker, but John sees his throat move as he swallows when John grabs the lube. With a bit more slick on his hand he reaches behind him, palms Bane's cock and starts stroking. Bane's hands move up to John's hips, but he falters, letting them drop to John's thighs instead.

John lets go of a shuddering breath when Bane starts smoothing his hands up and down his thighs. He holds Bane's dick in place and lowers himself, taking deep breaths. The head pressed to his hole feels like too much to take, too wide, and his body resists; but he forces himself down stubbornly until his muscles give away, stretch around the rim of the head and take Bane's cock inside. They both groan, and John has to shut his eyes against the pressure as he sits back, taking more in increments. Bane is gripping his thighs tight enough to bruise, not moving his hands anymore, but there's no fear in John that Bane will lose patience and drag him down the rest of the way. He lies still, lets John go at his own pace.

Overcome with a sudden burst of affection, John leans down and has to kiss him. Bane responds instantly, bringing a gentle hand to the back of John's neck. He brings his knees up a bit, giving John something to brace against, and kisses him thoroughly. As a distraction it works perfectly, and John relaxes, sinking onto him a little easier until he's taken Bane to the root. He needs friction, so almost at once he starts lifting himself and pushing back down, little rocking thrusts that just manage to give him what he needs.

He's out of breath soon. Bane knows it. His hands go to John's ass, and he helps to lift him and pull him down, rolling his own hips to meet John partway. Before long John relaxes altogether, barely helping. It's good, he thinks, but it could be better. Putting a hand on Bane's chest to still him, John bites his lip and eases himself off Bane's cock. He flops to the side, onto his back, and pulls Bane over to him. If Bane's disappointed not to have John riding him anymore, he doesn't show it. He pushes John's legs aside and kneels between them, stroking himself several times before he lines himself up with John's hole and pushes back in. This time, with no control over how quickly and smoothly Bane hilts himself all the way inside, John lets his mouth fall open on a moan. Bane takes advantage of this to kiss him.

“Come on,” John says hoarsely when Bane pulls away. He wants—he can't even articulate what he wants. But Bane seems to know. He leans back again, holds up John's legs, which are wrapped loosely around his waist, and starts to move. It takes them a minute to get into a rhythm together—it's been a while—but when Bane starts pulling almost all the way out and fucking back in, nailing the sweet spot almost every time, John has to arch his back off the bed and bite his knuckles to keep himself from crying out.

“You're all right?” Bane asks warily, slowing a bit. John's so fast to reassure him that he doesn't even think about what he's saying:

“Yeah, yeah, you're perfect, keep going.”

Bane's eyes gleam. He leans down and nuzzles at John's neck, breathing in deep. “Can I move faster?”

“Uh-huh.” He wraps his arms around Bane's shoulders to keep him there, to keep himself grounded when Bane starts moving a little rougher, fucking in a little harder. The lamplight helps. The scent of Bane, comforting and familiar, helps. But Bane's attentiveness is what helps best: the way he runs his hands down John's sides, through his hair, petting and stroking over and over. He's fucking John harder but his hands are so gentle. John catches one of them, lets Bane hold it to the pillow next to his head, and twines their fingers. He pushes his hips into Bane's thrusts, squeezing down on him whenever Bane starts to pull back, and Bane growls. He likes that.

John's getting close and he's barely touched himself. He can't come like this, he realizes a minute later, and he pushes at Bane again. It's hard to breathe. He feels caged.

“I need to—”

Bane moves away at once, watching him. John doesn't keep him waiting, though; he's every bit as keyed-up. He pushes Bane back onto his back and straddles him again. He feels better when he takes Bane's cock this time, almost sighing with relief. He needs Bane's help, though, so he lifts himself onto his knees and stills, and Bane gets it almost right away. He holds John steady with both hands at his hips, braces his feet in the mattress and starts fucking up into John with a groan. In this position, the head of his cock grinds John's prostate so perfectly that it's almost an overload.

John's so close he doesn't dare change position, but he does bring a hand to his cock and start jerking himself rapidly. So close now that the corners of his eyes are wet and stinging; and finally, with a few muffled gasps, his release just about pours out of him, coating his fingers and Bane's stomach. His head is fuzzy and his ears are ringing, but he keeps going, wringing every drop of pleasure from himself.

Somewhere through this haze he can hear Bane's growl, but he doesn't realize that Bane has come until his head has cleared a bit and he can feel Bane's come trickling down his balls every time Bane fucks in, slower and slower until, at last, he stills. They both catch their breath.

Wordlessly, and without dismounting from him, John grabs Bane's towel on the sheets and wipes off his hand and Bane's belly. Then he lies down on Bane's chest, tilting his head so that he can listen to Bane's pounding heartbeat, and closes his eyes. Lazily, Bane strokes a hand through his hair.

“ _Habibi_ ,” he rumbles.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” John asks in a mumble, falling asleep.

“It was perfect,” Bane says. “And yours?”

“Yeah,” John says, closing his eyes. “Perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hang out with me on Tumblr if you like pictures of rats/birds/JGL/Tom Hardy (not all at once): http://whiskyrunner.tumblr.com/


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